


There's Always Something

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Confused Sherlock, Fluff, M/M, Sentiment, Sherlock Makes Deductions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:18:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John appears to be involved in shady secret dealings that Sherlock doesn't know about, possibly involving wearing Lestrade's pants. Sherlock is not impressed. But he always misses <i>something</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's Always Something

 

_Dull._ Everything was dull, tedious, boring. And John? Sherlock frowned and did an instant sensory evaluation of the flat. No John on the main floor, even reading or sitting quietly with his tea he made  _some_  noise. The bathroom door was open, and John didn't go into Sherlock's bedroom when Sherlock wasn't in it. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the clock. Half past three. Must have come in hours ago, then, when Sherlock wasn't paying attention, and gone upstairs to bed. Hardly unusual. But Sherlock was  _bored_. And so he took the stairs two at a time, slipping into John's room with the intention of finding  _something_  interesting, however poor the odds.

Nothing unusual at first glance--John's head, poking out from the duvet, blonde locks astray and snoring gently. Sherlock took a step into the room and then paused.  _Observe_. Foreign elements, objects not native to John's bedroom. His eyes swept over the chest of drawers. Keys, John's wallet, nothing strange there, but next to them a warrant card. Lestrade's. Sherlock's eyebrows rose. So the good doctor was swiping warrant cards, then, despite claiming it  _a bit not good_  when Sherlock did it. Perhaps the value judgement would explain why John would do it himself, rather than simply nicking one from Sherlock or asking for his help. But what would John need a warrant card for, if unrelated to a case on which they were both working? Three or four dozen possibilities streamed through Sherlock's brain in seconds.  _Need more data_.

A mess of John's clothes on the floor, untidy but hardly unusual. John frequently let his clothing fall where it would if he was particularly exhausted after coming home from the clinic or a case, and perhaps he had worked a double shift today--Sherlock had been busy with a certain experiment all afternoon and hadn't given it any thought. So within the normal set of John's observed habits, except something was off. On the chair, draped neatly, another set of clothes. These less familiar, but not completely foreign either. Sherlock put his hand to the shirt on top of the pile.  _Lestrade's._  

Now  _this_  was getting interesting. Not only had John stolen a warrant card, but an entire outfit of clothing from the detective inspector? Why? The list of possible reasons in Sherlock's head narrowed to a handful with the addition of novel evidence. A disguise, obviously, but what was so unique about Lestrade's clothing? He didn't wear a uniform, so it wasn't the job alone that John needed to impersonate. Anyone who knew Lestrade well enough to recognize his clothing wouldn't confuse John for him; they didn't look nearly enough alike. True, John didn't own many clothes  _like_  what the inspector wore, and maybe he wanted to lend a more professional air to his appearance before attempting whatever it was he needed a warrant card for, but it would've been far easier to simply purchase the clothes, even on John's budget, than to steal them from the Yard or Lestrade's flat. Perhaps it was psychological? Did John, like a method actor, need to wear  _those_  particular clothes to get into character before executing his plan?

Sherlock understood that. Slipping on disguises, for him, was a simple matter, an adjustment to his usual walk and his facial expression, posture corrections, adopting the gestures of another. Clothes and accessories contributed but were mere icing, as far as he was concerned. But he hadn't always been such a master of deceit. Indeed, in his younger years, he'd found such a practice helpful for plotting a ruse. Adopting his target's habits was a matter of more intense study, more practice. John was not a genius, nor was he a particularly keen observer, so the clothing would make sense. And yet, the question lingered,  _why_? And more importantly... why was he keeping this job a secret from Sherlock? That was what rankled most.

He turned again to the bed, about to rouse John and ask, when a piece of more obvious data came to him. The lump, the John-shaped lump in the bed, was in fact not John-shaped at all. It was wide, far too wide, and, well... lumpier than it was supposed to be. Too many lumps. Sherlock frowned, observed the lumps more closely, and then smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead, his voice low but insistent. 

" _Sex_!!" he exclaimed with a little groan of annoyance. "Of  _course_!"

The extra lumps--the Lestrade-shaped lumps, Sherlock amended now that he had assimilated the additional data--shifted under the duvet and a soft muffled groan issued from them before they settled. John's eyes blinked open and he gave Sherlock a smile, a fond exasperated smile that made Sherlock feel not so imbecilic for having missed the disgustingly obvious and frankly  _pedestrian_  conclusion that John had engaged in sexual intimacy whilst Sherlock had been experimenting. Impersonation, he defended himself mentally, would have been far more  _logical_ , but a sort of warm feeling settled in his stomach at the thought that John hadn't been hiding things from him after all. Or rather, he  _had_ , but not  _important_ things. Merely physical affection and a possibly shifting relationship status with their colleague.  _Dull_.  _Tedious_. Though in a way comforting--had John actually been planning to  _wear_  even the not-his pair of pants sitting on the chair to get into character Sherlock might've been concerned.

"Go back downstairs, Sherlock," John mumbled, voice sleepily content. Sherlock huffed a little but did as he was told. Perhaps the catalyst had kicked in on the early side of the expected period. Wouldn't hurt to check.


End file.
